6. The Pigeon and the Eagle - Lords of Serendipity

During the weeks that Allard conducted his academic integrity sessions and Devi and her family threw themselves at the coffins of Sri Lanka’s wealthier dead, Jack lectured and avoided an associate dean. She’d sent him emails, left voicemails, even slipped her business card under his office door. Same cell number was written on the back. The last time Jack had used Helen’s cell phone number, it had been to say thank you for the meal she’d dropped off a few days before Elizabeth died. Aquafaba broth for Elizabeth, and chickpea curry and a black lentil stew and gunpowder potatoes for Jack and Katrina, the recipes taken from an Indian restaurant in London that the two couples—Jack and Elizabeth, Helen and Nick—would visit on the trip they would take when Elizabeth beat the cancer. But she didn’t. Then, a few years later, Nick was diagnosed, and he didn’t beat it either, and it was very fast. And Jack could have gone to Helen to offer help, comfort, maybe more, but he had stayed away. Instead, he devoted everything to Katrina and to Elizabeth’s memory, and everything meant getting Katrina into Haven, Elizabeth’s alma mater, no matter the cost. No matter any kind of cost. His work at the university became the same research, the same teaching, the same committees. Year after year after year, same and same and same. The department photocopier.

Whereas Helen, having lost her spouse, and with her son already in college, devoted everything to Arcadia. She was a member of every working group, every provostial commission, every presidential task force, and she was now associate dean for student wellness success. And after several years of no contact whatsoever with her once-good-friend Jack, she was trying to reach him.

He was avoiding her. Continuing to avoid her. He was even avoiding the reasons why he was still avoiding Helen.

But if he had to express them:

Faithfulness to the memory of Elizabeth equaled 1.0 when forgetfulness of certain memories of Helen equaled 1.0.

But this perfect coefficient came to an end on the Monday of the fourth week of the semester, when Helen walked into the Greek diner where Jack was having breakfast.

She carried a yoga mat under her arm, and her expensive-looking gray hair was in a ponytail. She was wearing a light technical jacket, a tank top, and black leggings.

Jack looked down at his plate.

If you promise not to laugh at this outfit, I promise I’ll tell the dean you replied to my very first email about the student complaints.

Hi, Helen.

She tilted her head and smiled.

Hi, Jack.

He exhaled. When did he start holding his breath?

Jack, all we need to talk about are the student complaints.

He nodded.

I owe you an apology, Helen. I owe you several apologies. When Nick—

Jack, all I want to talk about are the student complaints. That’s it.

He looked up, hearing the sharpness of her voice, and saw that she was also breathing a little hard and her eyes were glassy. A brown eye and a green eye. She blinked a few times and continued.

I would rather speak with you in a more professional setting than this, and certainly in more professional attire, but you’ve not made that possible. And I need to update the dean and several staff, so let’s discuss things here. Understood?

Of course. Please. Take a seat. Student complaints. I wasn’t aware. And I apologize—he looked up from his eggs—I apologize if this information was made available to me in your earlier emails, which I have not had a chance as yet to review.

She nodded and gave him a curt smile.

Everyone’s just so busy. Everyone gets so many emails, especially this time of year.

Jack stood up and pointed at the empty chair across from his. Please.

She sat down and dropped the yoga mat on the floor and arranged loose strands of her long, gray-gold hair behind her ears.

Jack saw her do this and Jack’s heart ached.

Because, pretend all he liked, like the rest of us, Jack was more than mere ashes.

So, he said. He breathed out again. Complaints?

Yes. My office was informed that in a lecture you delivered as part of STA 105, Statistics for Non-Majors, you made repeated references to graphic acts of animal cruelty and then, according to multiple complaints, forced students to discuss these graphic acts of animal cruelty. Several students have dropped the course and at least one has filed an SCP.

Animal cruelty? What are you talking about? And what’s an SCP?

Special Circumstances Petition. Which, if granted by the university’s Special Circumstances Petitions Panel, assigns the petitioning student full course credit with no change to their GPA or CGPA if and when they are not able to complete the course because of the special circumstances.

Helen, Jack said. He could remember when the two of them would make Elizabeth and Nick laugh with stories like this, about the crazy things that went on at the university. The game was that Elizabeth and Nick had to guess which of the stories Helen and Jack told were true, and which were false. And the joke was, they were always true. All of them.

Yes? said Helen.

Sorry?

Did you have a question? A moment ago, you said my name in a tone I took to mean you had a question.

She was being supremely professional.

Fine. So would he.

What are we talking about? Jack asked. I have no idea what we are talking about.

If you have posted lecture notes or a lecture recording that provides evidence to the contrary of these complaints, the Dean’s Office welcomes this.

And if I don’t?

The decision could be made to pull you from the course.

Are you serious?

We’d of course have to confer with your chair and you’d have the right to seek representation from the Faculty Association.

Helen, I’m teaching 105 on overload to pay Katrina’s residence fees. At Haven. She just started, in September.

Helen smiled and sighed.

That’s, that’s really great, Jack. I know what that means for both of you. I wish I had known. I would have liked to have . . . well, anyway . . . Evan is a senior at Dartmouth.

I need to teach this, Helen. For Katrina. I can’t be pulled from the course.

She leaned in. You need to teach this? Then answer my emails. Do what’s asked of you. Do something, Jack, so that this can be put aside and we can all get on with the rest of the semester. So, what can you tell me?

Jack sat back, making a skeptical face. He went over his last few STA 105 lectures, all of which followed the slide decks from the previous professor. Introducing students to the basic premises and terminology of statistics, there had been explanatory references to coin flips, lightning strikes, car insurance rates, food rations in ancient Sparta. Nothing about animals.

Nothing comes to mind, Jack?

No.

Are you sure? Because what I’ll do then is prepare a draft report and share it with you to confirm the wording of your statement, which will be that—

Oh wait! Of course! The pigeon and the eagle! My first lecture.

She nodded in a way that suggested she already knew all about the pigeon and the eagle. He didn’t like that. Why embarrass them both with this kind of theater? Why make him tell her about teaching this for Katrina? Why?

Can you offer more context?

I was explaining how statistics responds to unexpected events, compared to how other fields respond. Like yours. History.

My faculty appointment is now in Cultural Expression and Action. The History Department was consolidated into this, along with Philosophy and English, a few years ago.

Jack nodded.

That was right after they got rid of the foreign language departments, wasn’t it?

We still have East Asian Studies. It’s now our largest humanities program.

Yes. Anyway, congratulations about Evan at Dartmouth. Isn’t that where Nick went?

Helen nodded.

Helen, I know when Nick—

She held up her hand.

Just then, the server arrived.

Sorry, madam. I thought you ordered the smoothie to go. Do you want that I put the smoothie in a glass instead?

No, that’s fine. Thank you.

She checked her phone, then tucked it into her waistband and picked up her yoga mat. She stood.

Jack studied his cold eggs.

Please respond to my next email, okay? To resolve this and close the file.

Jack nodded, still looking down.

Jack? Helen said, more softly.

He looked up.

She smiled and tilted her head again.

One other thing.

Yes?

Never talk about Harry Potter in class. You just can’t do that anymore.

Harry Potter? What? When did I do that?

Reply to my next email, Jack, okay?

He nodded and looked down again and she left.

Jack looked up. He watched her leave. He predicted the probability that she would turn and look back at him as very low. He was correct. But nevertheless, her ponytail, the small of her back—even walking away from him she blew away the ash, shook the rust from his heart.

His heart fluttered.

For Helen.

Not for Elizabeth.

And not for the first time, either.

Worse still: When the widower Jack first heard the news that Helen’s husband had died, his heart did a funny thing. A bad funny thing. It beat hard and hopeful.

Eagle, take my heart.

O eagle, please take this remembering heart.